


Quadrilogy: How I Met Your Uncle

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Family, Future Fic, Homecoming, M/M, Travel, Uncle-Niece Relationship, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may be the first of April, but the trouble is, Mycroft isn't joking (set in April 2011).</p><p>*</p><p>All Sherlock can do is stare (set sometime in 2015).</p><p>*</p><p>There's nothing like finding the place you belong (set in Autumn 2017).</p><p>*</p><p>Hindsight is 20/20, and sometimes even sharper (set in Summer 2028).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Get There From Here

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in April of 2011.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

The phone call went something like this:  
  
“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. How are your patients keeping?”  
  
“Fine, except when they're not. Haven't I told you not to ring me at work?”  
  
“Sincerest apologies, but it couldn't wait. What's your holiday allotment for the year?”  
  
“Twenty-seven days pro rata, given I'm only part-time. Haven't bothered to work it out, seeing as I haven't used any of it. Half that number, maybe a third? Wait. _Wait_. Why are you asking?”  
  
“Sherlock tells me you've been under a lot of strain. Perhaps you'd like a holiday?”  
  
“Perhaps _Sherlock_ would like a holiday. Please don't indulge him.”  
  
“I'm his brother. Of _course_ I'll indulge him, even if I know better than anyone how counter-productive it is to do so. I should mention, however, that this trip isn't Sherlock's idea.”  
  
“ _Isn't_? As in, this trip exists, and you didn't bother to mention you'd done the booking? Mycroft, do you honestly think I can just drop everything—”  
  
“For Sherlock's sake, you can and you _do_. Without fail. Now, would you like the particulars?”  
  
“Okay, that's just—fine. Great. Thanks. Where are we going?”  
  
“You'll need to book off the twenty-second until the thirtieth. If Ms. Sawyer gives you any difficulties, please let my PA know, and she'll see to it.”  
  
“Wait a minute. Today's April first. For a while there, you really had me going.”  
  
“April twenty-second through April thirtieth. You'll fly to Newark on the twenty-second, cast off from Cape Liberty on the twenty-third, spend a full day at sea, arrive in St. George on the morning of the twenty-fifth and remain there for three full days, during which time I've booked you off-ship accommodation at Grotto Bay Beach Resort—”  
  
“A cruise. A cruise to _Bermuda_. Sherlock will kill you.”  
  
“Sherlock's never been there. He might find it stimulating.”  
  
“He'll die of the humidity, but not before he grows bored with snorkeling and terrorizes the fish.”  
  
“Your concern for the local ecosystem is touching. You'll return to New Jersey on the twenty-ninth and fly back to London on the thirtieth. Any questions?”  
  
“Yeah, actually. How do I break it to Sherlock that you're exiling us so that he doesn't play any havoc with your security arrangements for the Royal Wedding?”  
  
“Very _good_ , John. I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. Unfortunately, you'll have to take care of that aspect on your own. Good day.”  
  
_Click_.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Royal Caribbean,” Sherlock snarled, making as if to snap his ID-card room key in half. He'd been childish and pulled an atrocious face for the camera during check-in, and now he'd have to carry the evidence around for the remainder of their trip. “Surely he could have booked us with Celebrity or Norwegian. We'll be trapped for over twenty-four hours with a ship-load of drunken idiots, forty-eight hours if you count the return journey.”  
  
John's own face smiled up at him benignly from his card as he reached over and took Sherlock's away from him. “Royal Caribbean's the only line with trips to Bermuda in April,” he said. “At least we'll have three full days ashore. It's considerate of Mycroft to put us up at that resort.”  
  
“Small mercies,” Sherlock said, shifting in his chair. The embarkation lounge was badly ventilated, and it was getting increasingly more crowded. “Not that he's capable of any other kind.”  
  
“I don't know,” John replied, tucking their cards in his back pocket. “I think I really do need a holiday. Why Bermuda, do you suppose? It's not the cheapest option by far.”  
  
“Cost has nothing to do with it,” Sherlock said. “Diplomacy, on the other hand, _has_. If we cause any trouble—”  
  
“If _you_ cause any trouble—”  
  
“Whatever, let me finish. If we cause any trouble, his political influence extends even so far.”  
  
“Still under the Crown,” John sighed. “Of course.”  
  
“I hadn't realized that St. George is the longest continually inhabited English town in the New World.”  
  
“Of course not. Ranks right up there with the finer points of astronomy, doesn't it? Thank God for Wikipedia.”  
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, lapsing back into irritation. “When do we board?”  
  
“In about ten minutes,” said John, apologetically. He reached over and let his hand rest against Sherlock's thigh, stroking the underside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb. “Do you want a drink or anything? There are vending machines...”  
  
He trailed off, struck speechless by the warmth in Sherlock's gaze. Rare, for Sherlock to let his affection show in public. He never seemed to mind when John did, but it was a luxury he rarely permitted himself. _Deluxe stateroom with a queen-size bed_ , he thought. _Yes, please_.  
  
“No, I'm fine,” Sherlock said. “And there will be time for _that_ later.”  
  
“You started it,” said John, grinning.  
  
“Did not,” Sherlock insisted, mirroring John's caress. “You're a distraction.”  
  
“That's the point, I think.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Of what?”  
  
_Oh, no_. John glanced down at their hands, and then back up at Sherlock's face.  
  
“This trip. It'll take your mind of of things for a while.”  
  
“John, I rarely want my mind to be taken off of _things_ , as you call them.”  
  
“Bodies, evidence, suspects, cases,” John amended. “Are you satisfied?”  
  
“There's something I'm forgetting,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. “Could be dangerous?”  
  
“Not that I recall,” John lied. “Lestrade hadn't mentioned anything.”  
  
“It wasn't to do with the Yard,” said Sherlock, tapping his chin. “It was—”  
  
The announcement for priority boarding echoed through the lounge.  
  
“That's us,” John said, shouldering his rucksack. The rest of their luggage was already on the ship, including a case containing some intricate lab equipment for which Mycroft had procured Sherlock a special permit. Otherwise, they'd probably have been pegged as terrorists.  
  
“It's about time,” Sherlock said, stretching as he rose. “My knees weren't having any more of that.”  
  
“You're catching up to me,” John told him, fishing their cards out of his pocket. He presented them to the attendant at the gangplank entrance. She smiled and waved them past.  
  
“Am not,” Sherlock said, taking back his card and tucking it in his jacket pocket, as if to prove he was ready to play like an adult. “Those chairs aren't designed to be used by tall people.”  
  
The lower levels of the ship, in spite of being comprised of only long, claustrophobic parallel corridors connected every so often by a small lobby containing lifts and staircases, somehow managed to be about as easy to navigate as a beginner's-level maze. They found their stateroom after twenty minutes of fruitless wandering on two different levels. It took Sherlock three tries to get his card to unlock the door. John had to prevent him from snapping it again.  
  
“Let's hope they deliver the luggage soon,” said John, flicking the light switch as he followed Sherlock inside. “I'd really like to brush my— _oh_. This is...”  
  
“Disturbingly ostentatious?” Sherlock suggested, drawing open the curtains. They had a goddamned _balcony_ , complete with deck chairs. Sherlock opened the door and stepped outside, surveying the dull grey harbor. “I hope the view will improve.”  
  
“It should do,” John said, joining him. He set down his rucksack and leaned on the railing, breathing in tainted summer air laced with salt. “The water will change color, for one.”  
  
“You were about to say something about the room?”  
  
“It's ridiculous,” John laughed. “Telly, table and chairs, armchair, sofa, the whole nine yards. I've never stayed in anything above two or three stars. This is four or five. I feel like royalty.”  
  
Sherlock gasped, and then thumped the railing with a cry of disappointment.  
  
“The wedding!”  
  
“What wedding?”  
  
“Those simpering brats,” Sherlock said. “Twenty-ninth of April. We'll miss it.”  
  
“Ah,” said John, his stomach sinking. “So we will.”  
  
“I've got to get back,” Sherlock said. “There'll be call for skills like mine, of course, should anyone attempt sabotage, and I don't trust Mycroft's cronies to catch—”  
  
John stepped between Sherlock and the door.  
  
“They won't let you back off, you realize.”  
  
“Who won't? Says who?”  
  
“Ship security,” John said. “Once you're on, you're on, and let me tell you another thing: I _don't_ fancy a brush with the Cape Liberty police. At least have the good sense not to kick off till we've left American soil, all right? I'm amazed you're not already on their no-fly list.”  
  
Sherlock's shoulders slumped in defeat. He sat down in one of the deck chairs.  
  
John knelt down and untied Sherlock's shoes one at a time, and then tugged them off.  
  
“What did you do that for?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“We're on holiday, and your footwear's all wrong,” John told him.  
  
“I will not, I repeat, will _not_ engage in the sporting of flip-flops.”  
  
“I have no clue how you plan on navigating the beaches, then,” John said as Sherlock helped him rise and settle into the other chair. Sherlock was still miffed, but he wiggled his toes appreciatively before pulling off his socks. For a second, John thought he might toss them overboard.  
  
“Barefoot,” Sherlock said. “How else?”  
  
“Sand gets hot,” John warned, tugging off his own shoes.  
  
“That's what the ocean's for,” Sherlock retorted, but his expression said something else entirely.  
  
John leaned over and kissed him, ignoring the knocking that came from inside.  
  
Their luggage could wait in the hall for a while.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Although John had been looking forward to the prospect of contact with random strangers, Sherlock insisted that they avoid the dining room and order in. Beneath the flush on his cheeks and chest, Sherlock looked pale, even slightly queasy. They'd only been moving for about forty minutes, and even then, John had managed to distract him through most of it.  
  
“All right,” John said, dropping his jeans back on the floor. “Do you want me to ring—”  
  
Sherlock was already on the phone with room service, so John rolled his eyes, put on his shorts and shirt, and towed their luggage in from the hall. He got funny looks from two attendants passing with a linen trolley, muttered _Sorry, sorry_ under his breath. Why Sherlock thought two suitcases and a case of lab equipment were appropriate for a nine-day trip was anybody's guess.  
  
Halfway through dinner, Sherlock dropped his fork, set his plate down on the bed, and bolted for the loo. Before John could wedge his way in to see what was the matter, Sherlock slammed the door and locked him out. John rested his head against the wall and sighed, clutching the doorknob. From the sound of things, Sherlock was suffering rather violent seasickness. Sherlock wobbled out fifteen minutes later and didn't even protest when John took his elbow and led him back to bed.  
  
Sherlock spent most of the night curled in on himself, sleepless, with John's arm draped over him and John's fingers clutched to his chest. The waves got rougher as the night wore on ( _We're off Cape Hatteras_ , John realized), although Sherlock didn't vomit again (John had set one of the bins alongside the bed, just in case). Around midnight, John turned on the telly and flicked through the lamentable selection of films, finally settling on _Babel_. The sound seemed to soothe Sherlock, as he drifted off to sleep about an hour into the film, still clinging to John's hand.  
  
John didn't wait for the film to end. He turned off the telly and sought out the softness of Sherlock's nape in the darkness, pressing his lips to sweat-damp hair. It took him a while to fall asleep.  
  
“Wake up,” Sherlock whispered, his breath a hot tickle in John's ear. “The sea's calm.”  
  
John groaned and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Yes, but is it morning?”  
  
“Possibly. You shut the curtains last night.”  
  
“Is there light showing through?”  
  
“A bit.”  
  
“Then it's morning,” John sighed, “but I didn't sleep well, and I was hoping...”  
  
Sherlock mouthed his neck lazily.  
  
“You were hoping?”  
  
“Never mind,” John gasped, letting his eyes fly open. “Do what you like.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock murmured, nipping John's collarbone. “What _you_ like.”  
  
They missed proper breakfast in the dining room and had to make do with the buffet, which disappointed Sherlock somewhat, but suited John just fine. There were croissants and fruit and bacon and tea, and any number of other things that John would never have considered fair game for breakfast. Sherlock overloaded a small plate with fresh mango, probably for the sheer novelty of it.  
  
“Not so bad when it's like this,” Sherlock said, gazing out the window as they ate.  
  
“It takes some getting used to,” John replied. “My first time at sea, I did about as well as you.”  
  
“Was it during your time in the military?”  
  
“Not a chance. Mum and Dad took me and Harry on a cruise to New Zealand one summer.”  
  
Sherlock glared at John. “Let me guess, you were all of six years old?”  
  
“Fourteen, actually,” John admitted. “I was sick at formal dinner the first night. Harry never let me live it down. There's no way I would have put you through the same thing yesterday evening.”  
  
“You'd been looking forward to it, though,” Sherlock said. “Meeting new people.”  
  
“We'll meet plenty of new people before the week's out.”  
  
“What if I find them intolerable? Has it occurred to you that if tonight's a disaster, I'll simply take my meals alone in the stateroom on our return journey?”  
  
“If you decide to do that, then I'll take them there with you.”  
  
“Don't deny yourself social interaction on my account.”  
  
“This is a decent set-up,” John pointed out. “We're surrounded by people, but you're not obliged to interact with any of them. We can just do this in the mornings, if you like.”  
  
“Lunch like this wouldn't go amiss, either,” said Sherlock, his tone subtly pleading. “One out of three today, one out of three on the way back. I'll endure the dinners for your sake.”  
  
“Martyrdom doesn't suit you,” John said, but he couldn't help but smile.  
  
Sherlock ignored the comment and pulled that morning's itinerary out of his pocket. He'd seemed gleeful at the prospect of fresh bulletins being slid under their door every morning.  
  
“There's a spa,” Sherlock said. “And a theater, an ice-skating rink, a hair salon...” He scanned the pages, fascinated. “An art auction, really? We'll have to inspect the gallery, see how many fakes...”  
  
“I wouldn't mind giving the quiz this afternoon a go, if you're game.”  
  
Sherlock made a face. “We'll see.”  
  
“There's nothing that says we can't split up for activities, Sherlock.”  
  
“I'd rather not.”  
  
John tapped Sherlock's ankle with the toe of his shoe.  
  
“Then we'll have to compromise. We'll go look at the artwork, explore the rest of the ship, have lunch, and then sign up for the quiz. We'll stand a good chance of winning, I think.”  
  
“Probably not,” Sherlock said. “They tend to tilt the questions towards American trivia, and in that regard, I'll be of very little use. Also, the prize is either a pen or a keychain.”  
  
“Take all the fun out of it, why don't you,” said John, fondly.  
  
Sherlock finished his mango in silence, intent upon the waves.  
  
After breakfast, they went to have a look at the art exhibition. The auction wasn't set to happen until their return journey, and already a small handful of posh-looking people were drifting intently from frame to frame. John felt distinctly out of place, trailing along after Sherlock as he muttered to himself. Most of the paintings were by contemporary working artists, unquestionably genuine. Sherlock made faces at them one after another, as if they'd let him down. It wasn't until they got to the lithographs and the linocuts that things got interesting: Sherlock declared two Dalí pieces forgeries, and one Picasso questionable (on account of dodgy signatures). The art auction representative thanked him curtly for his opinions, turned on his heel, and left.  
  
“They're not opinions,” Sherlock hissed under his breath. “They're _facts_.”  
  
“He doesn't care about facts, Sherlock,” John said. “He cares about making a profit.”  
  
Sherlock was easily placated with the promise of iced coffee, plus a game of chess in the rec room. John wasn't a terrible player, but he wasn't brilliant, either. Sherlock beat him five times before he pleaded mercy. They'd even accrued an audience. Sherlock yawned and stretched.  
  
“Can you teach me how to do that?” said a teenage boy who'd been watching intently.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, rising from his seat. “I need some fresh air.”  
  
“Right,” said John, as the onlookers dispersed. “Why don't we go up on deck?”  
  
Sherlock insisted on using the stairs instead of the lifts, so by the time they reached the deck level, John's leg was a bit worse for wear. Sherlock took his arm and squinted into the sun as they walked out into the windswept open, already approaching a fairer clime than the one they'd left behind overnight. The ocean stretched out in front of them, endless and peaceful.  
  
“I've never been at sea,” Sherlock remarked, leading John to the railing. “We traveled regularly when I was young, but we always flew. After my father's death, Mummy was left reasonably well off. My grandmother came on holiday with us every summer, to her birthplace in France, or to Spain, Italy, Switzerland...wherever Mycroft wanted to go. For my part, it was all boring.”  
  
John had never heard Sherlock mention his father before.  
  
“If I might ask, how did he die?”  
  
“What? Oh. Killed in a road accident when I was an infant. I never knew him.”  
  
John nodded. “Mine went within two years of each other. Mum first, and then Dad. We all knew Dad wasn't going to last long without her. It's as if the cancer killed them both.”  
  
Sherlock leaned closer to him, so that their forearms touched.  
  
“Don't you get any pleasure out of travel?” John asked.  
  
“I might yet,” Sherlock said, half smiling. “This time around, the company's much better.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
As it turned out, Sherlock had been lying about his ineptitude at American trivia. Sherlock knew all of the answers except two, whereas John had got the answers to all but eight. They were the only team to answer every question correctly, and, contrary to Sherlock's prediction, the prize was a mug.  
  
“Ace,” John said, tossing it on the bed. “One more vessel for you to fill with unhygienic, radioactive, or otherwise harmful substances.” The mug was dark blue and said _ROYAL CARIBBEAN_ in white lettering.  
  
“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, rescuing it and setting it aside on the dresser. “I'll take it to Bart's and leave it in the kitchenette. Everyone else has their own mug. I'm forever borrowing Mike's.”  
  
“With a logo like that, you can be sure no one else will touch it,” John said.  
  
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sherlock, grinning.  
  
“You look as if you've never won anything before in your life.”  
  
“Nothing so trivial, no,” Sherlock said, looming over John suddenly. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Forcing me to participate in what I had assumed would be a meaningless exercize.”  
  
“I don't know,” John said, stepping forward. “Some of those questions were absurd.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, tugging at the hem of John's shirt. “But we _won_.”  
  
If winning a quiz was likely to get him spectacularly fucked every single time, he'd have to make enquiries at the local pub once they got back. There might even be decent money in it, although he suspected that Sherlock would be far happier with pens, keychains, and mugs.  
  
“Let me guess,” John panted against Sherlock's shoulder. “It's because I knew Vega's going to be the next northern pole star in about twelve thousand years.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, slumping over John in a content heap of long limbs and flawlessly debauched hair. “It's because you'd rather I were in a good mood for dinner.”  
  
“Fair enough,” John said, and struck pub quizzes off his mental to-do list.  
  
The shower was too cramped for them to share, which resulted in Sherlock sitting hunched on top of the closed toilet until John finished. He talked the whole time, but John was only partly listening, as the spray garbled Sherlock's words, rendering them meaningless. It was only once he'd shut off the water that he realized Sherlock had been fussing about _what to wear to dinner_ the whole time. John kissed his chin, told him to wear what he'd normally wear, and pushed him into the shower. Sherlock went on nattering to himself while John shaved. By the time he finished, John was out and fully dressed, and he'd apparently solved one of the Yard's many cold cases.  
  
Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and studied John from head to toe.  
  
“You don't have a suit,” he said. “Where did you get that?”  
  
“Mycroft gave me fair warning,” John said. “Second week of April. That day I came home late.”  
  
“The jacket sleeves are slightly too long,” said Sherlock, absently, standing there in nothing but his pants as he buttoned up his shirt. “Don't give me that look. No one will notice.”  
  
“Everyone will notice _you_ ,” John sighed.  
  
Busy tugging on his socks, Sherlock looked up sharply.  
  
“They always do. You must know that.”  
  
“Knowing it and liking it are two different things,” Sherlock said, and moved on to his trousers.  
  
John chewed his lip. “Was there ever a time...”  
  
“When I didn't like the way you looked at me? No. That's a stupid question.”  
  
John nodded, relieved. “Good, right. Good.”  
  
Sherlock made remarkably quick work of his tie and shrugged into his jacket.  
  
“Let's get this over with, shall we?” he said, offering John his hand.  
  
The family they were seated with was Sherlock's worst nightmare. Gerald and Marianne Bexley hailed from Lansing, Michigan, and it was clear before they'd even got through their starters that anything to do with politics or international relations would not make a suitable discussion topic. Their two daughters, eleven year-old Delia and six year-old Kate, were blessedly normal by comparison. Sherlock quickly discovered (much to his dismay, John could tell) that he preferred talking to the children. John fended off the parents as best he could.  
  
“Is London big?” Delia asked.  
  
“It's like New York, dummy,” Kate said. “I learned in school.”  
  
“Smaller, believe it or not, if you go by population,” Sherlock said.  
  
Kate frowned and pulled apart one of her prawns. “What's that?”  
  
“Number of people, _idiot_ ,” said Delia. “How many?” she asked Sherlock.  
  
“London's approximate population is eight million, whereas New York is home to twenty million.”  
  
“You know a lot,” Kate said, smiling at Sherlock. “Do you want a roll?”  
  
“No, but thank you,” Sherlock replied. John couldn't help but notice that he was trying not to smile back. “And you'll know a lot, too, if you read books in addition to paying attention at school.”  
  
“Her teachers write home saying she daydreams,” Delia said. “Mom goes in for conferences.”  
  
“My grades are better than yours,” insisted Kate. “You got a D in Science.”  
  
“Girls, that's enough now,” said Mrs. Bexley. “You let Mr.—” She hesitated, and John realized instantly what the problem was. They hadn't given their surnames. They'd merely introduced themselves as John and Sherlock, and now... “I'm sorry—Sherlock, I don't recall—”  
  
“Holmes,” he said. “And Dr. John Watson.”  
  
“Mr. Holmes,” she said, and gave the girls another warning look. Turning back to Sherlock, she added, “I just didn't know whether...well, I wasn't sure...” The familiar, infuriating tension was shot through with repressed disgust. “I suppose you know we've made some advances over here.”  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, eyes glinting like knives. “In?”  
  
Mr. Bexley cleared his throat. “Marianne, the kids.”  
  
“They'll learn it sooner or later,” she said thinly, and then turned her forced smile back on Sherlock. “I mean, g—civil partnership, I think is what you call it—is legal in a handful of states now.”  
  
John twisted his hands in the tablecloth. He wanted to throw something.  
  
“The rest of them had best catch up, then,” said Sherlock, icily.  
  
_I love you_ , John thought.  
  
“That's right, I forgot,” Mrs. Bexley said, gesturing for her husband, who clearly wanted to say something, to keep quiet. “You've got civil rights all figured out in England, haven't you?”  
  
“We do try,” Sherlock said, and then winked at Kate, who was watching him intently.  
  
Thanks to Mr. Bexley's forceful interjection, the conversation stayed mainly on the subject of Bermuda and what they'd find there for the remainder of the meal. Sherlock ended up teaching the girls how to fold a five-pound note into various unusual shapes. He ate all of his dessert, which was more than could be said for the attention he'd paid to the previous courses.  
  
They bid each other a stiff good-night, and Kate got to keep Sherlock's fiver.  
  
“I need a drink,” Sherlock muttered, scanning the nearest wall directory.  
  
“I won't argue with that,” said John, and followed him to the lift.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next morning, they headed out on deck directly after breakfast. Not only was the water blindingly blue, but the humidity was high enough on top of the sub-tropic heat that even John found it slightly uncomfortable. Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and slipped out of it.  
  
“Is it just me, or is it difficult to breathe?” he asked. “The air's stifling.”  
  
“Not an unusual reaction,” John said. “The humidity must be over eighty percent.”  
  
“I'll just have to endure it,” Sherlock said, his eyes flicking down to John's knee-length jean shorts and leather sandals. “I could never dress like that.”  
  
“Why? Because you think you'd look ridiculous? You _never_ look ridiculous.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, shading his eyes to inspect the island that loomed ever closer.  
  
“You've brought swim trunks, right? Because I hear the snorkeling's good at Horseshoe Bay.”  
  
Sherlock made a face. “Yes, but I don't expect to actually use them.”  
  
_We'll see about that_ , John thought. “We'll be in port within the next hour.”  
  
“The resort's a short bus ride from St. George. I looked it up.”  
  
“Get there, check in, then look around?”  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock said. Aside from the obvious effects of the humidity, the previous night's debauchery seemed to have left him completely untouched. Then again, he'd only drunk two glasses of wine before switching to coffee. That in and of itself would've made John ill.  
  
“You're short of breath. Let's go inside.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “It's wiser to acclimate as quickly as possible.”  
  
Disembarkation proved time-consuming, as by the time the ship had docked and they'd gone back inside Sherlock was overheated and showing the beginnings of a sunburn on his cheeks and forearms (he'd rolled up his sleeves, something John had rarely seen him do). He insisted that they carry their own luggage off the ship rather than let the porters see to it, as he didn't trust them with the lab equipment since he'd discovered a test tube broken. John sincerely hoped that he didn't plan to spend the next three days running experiments indoors in order to avoid the humidity.  
  
Walking from the dock to the center of town with a load of luggage in tow wasn't John's idea of a good time, but Sherlock bore the task with a surprising level of stoicism. The journey was largely uphill, and John couldn't help but find himself fascinated with the crumble-down charm of the architecture, the chipping, vine-infested walls painted in shades of yellow, pink, and white. With the exception of other tourists wandering the streets, there was a curious sense that this place had been abandoned long ago except by those with very deep roots or with nothing better to do.  
  
By the time they reached King's Square, Sherlock's skin shone damply. John left him in an empty tavern with their luggage and a cold ginger beer while he went in search of a cab. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't drive the proprietor insane, but then, the man looked grateful of some company.  
  
Twenty Bermudian dollars later (Sherlock hadn't been able to comprehend the fact that pounds sterling weren't acceptable, but US dollars _were_ ; John had just gone to an ATM and got some of the local currency), they were standing in reception at Grotto Bay. No small thanks to the air conditioning, Sherlock looked like he was in heaven. John was relieved that check-in took all of five minutes, as he was really going to have to persuade Sherlock to get some appropriate clothes.  
  
By noontime, he'd managed to convince Sherlock that setting up lab equipment in their ocean-front suite ($409 per night, and God knew what they'd charge Mycroft for damages to the property) didn't count as unpacking. They caught a bus back into town and wandered the narrow streets until they'd located a shop selling men's clothing. Sherlock was thoroughly offended by the outrageous prints on offer. John draped several pairs of monotone Bermuda shorts over Sherlock's arm (blue, black, tan) and told him there'd be no trip to Devil's Hole unless he settled on two of them.  
  
“These,” Sherlock sniffed, shoving the blue and tan pairs back at John. He dismissively abandoned the black pair on a rack of ladies' swimsuits. “They're unlikely to clash with the shirts.”  
  
“Aren't you going to try them on?” John asked.  
  
“No need. I can tell by the dimensions that they'll suffice, albeit hang loose by a quarter of an inch. There's also the fact that you have a talent for sizing clothing to your colleagues on sight. Years of having to select uniforms for yourself and for others, frequently from limited stock.”  
  
John shook his head, didn't bother to tell Sherlock that was amazing, and went to pay for the two pairs of shorts, three short-sleeved shirts, and some flip-flops (thank goodness for Mycroft's wire transfer). Chances were high that Sherlock _would_ look slightly absurd, but John wasn't about to tell him. He added a bottle of sun cream to their purchases, too, and imagined how that particular battle was going to play out. Sherlock's face was already an alarming shade of pink.  
  
“It's bad enough I've got to dress like a tourist,” said Sherlock, once he'd changed back at the resort. John waved the bottle of sun cream at him again, making the sternest face he could manage, but Sherlock wasn't having it. “It's unpleasantly sticky. And it smells odd.”  
  
“As is most of the stuff you handle on a regular basis. And you _are_ a tourist.”  
  
Sherlock dubiously appraised his feet. “Were these really necessary?”  
  
“Yes,” John replied. “You'll thank me for it later.”  
  
A trip to Devil's Hole meant yet another bus ride. It was clear that they wouldn't be doing much walking in this kind of heat, especially not given Sherlock's refusal to apply sun cream. They ate lunch beforehand in a cantina not far from the aquarium, which activity included the fatal mistake of sharing multiple rum swizzles. Sherlock had met his match in a drink containing three types of rum, fruit juice, and Angostura Bitters, as evidenced by the amount of concentration it required for him to clip a bit of raw squid onto his line at their unusual destination.  
  
“Surely they get fat,” he said unsteadily, dropping the line into the water. A large parrotfish yanked the squid free before one of the placidly circling sea turtles could get to it.  
  
“Maybe the fish do,” John said. “I can see why they don't bother going back out to sea. Who would, with a food supply like this?”  
  
Sherlock plucked a piece of lettuce out of the bait buckets and threw it in.  
  
“Diet time for you,” he told the turtles with unfocused sternness. “Like Mycroft.”  
  
“How old did you say those two were?” John asked the young woman who was serving as their tour guide. Amazing, that the place had been open since 1830, and that two of its occupants had been there nearly as long. About eighty years and a hundred and twenty years respectively, she said.  
  
“You didn't mishear,” Sherlock informed him, taking a photograph of the oldest turtle with his phone as she glided near the surface. “I know _I_ didn't, and I'm...” He frowned at his phone and punched a few buttons in irritation. John took it off of him and pocketed it.  
  
“You'll drop it in the water if you're not careful.”  
  
“I wanted to send Mycroft a picture of his new diet buddy.”  
  
“Diet buddy,” John echoed. He had the sinking feeling he ought to've drunk more, although Sherlock was in bad enough shape for both of them. “Right, that's enough for today.”  
  
“They're climbing in over there,” Sherlock said to the young woman, pointing.  
  
“I'm sorry?”  
  
“The imbeciles stealing your fish at night,” Sherlock said. “Barbed wire might sort it.”  
  
The young woman cringed, but she thanked him and saw them out.  
  
“Superstitious lot,” Sherlock said, slumped on the bus shelter bench. He swayed a little, so John sat down to brace him upright. He was unquestionably sunburnt, both face and arms.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Devil's Hole. So called because, back in the day, they mistook the wind blowing across the—” Sherlock snapped his fingers impatiently “—cave, sink-hole, _thing_ , for the Devil's groans.”  
  
“You're never telling me off for a bender again,” John said against Sherlock's ear.  
  
Sherlock grimaced and let his head droop to rest against John's.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They slept like the dead and didn't wake up until ten.  
  
Sherlock remained sprawled where he was, eyes shut tight, as it was obvious he was experiencing a state that he'd previously assumed happened only to other people. The advantage to a hung-over Sherlock, John discovered, was that it permitted for the application of sun cream with minimal fuss.  
  
“It's a conspiracy,” Sherlock groaned, attempting to wipe his arms off on the sheets. “I'm never drinking again.”  
  
John draped Sherlock's swim trunks across his chest. Sherlock tried to use them to wipe off more of the sun cream, but promptly gave up. He groaned, rolled onto his side, sat up, and put them on.  
  
“You've owned that snorkel mask for years solely in hopes that you'd one day get to use it.”  
  
“That would be correct,” John said, arranging it in his rucksack alongside their towels. “We did it as kids in New Zealand, Harry and me, but we had to rent gear.”  
  
“What's it like?” Sherlock asked, a bit of color that wasn't sunburn returning to his cheeks.  
  
“You'll see,” said John, handing him his flip-flops.  
  
They endured another bus ride, this one longer than the previous day's journeys. In spite of the fact that Sherlock had put on one of the short-sleeved shirts and a pair of Bermuda shorts over his swim trunks, he still seemed uncomfortable, shifting subtly in his seat. The walk down to where John had been told the snorkeling was best took only five minutes from where the bus left them off, and the look on Sherlock's face alone would've been worth the fare. He was _staring_.  
  
“I thought sand that white was make-believe,” he said. “It looks like something out of a film.”  
  
“Come on,” John said, and led him towards the water. They claimed a spot just out of the tide's reach, and John lamented the fact they didn't have a beach umbrella (Sherlock muttered something that sounded like _Should've asked Mycroft_ ). Coaxing Sherlock out of his clothing took a full ten minutes; John impatiently took off his shirt and donned the snorkel mask.  
  
“Take the mask off,” Sherlock sighed, finally relenting. “We're not even in the water yet.”  
  
“We will be in a second,” John said, tugging him to his feet. “Let's hope those kids haven't scared all the fish off.” The shallower parts of the cove served as much as a nursery as anything else.  
  
Although they'd been in the water together before under more lamentable circumstances, John had never had the opportunity to truly observe Sherlock in the element. Once they'd paddled their way past where even Sherlock's feet still touched bottom, it was clear that he was a strong swimmer, if not an excellent one. John had always considered himself competent, but Sherlock's easy grace made him feel as if he had no business being there. He put on the mask and went under.  
  
John found himself in the midst of a shoal of tiny, silvery fish. He reached out, and several bumped against his fingers in their panic, darting quickly in the opposite direction. He moved forward slowly, squinting in the faintly sunlit murk. They weren't the first swimmers to venture this far, as a fine haze of sand filled the blue. Out of the corner of his eye, there was a bright flash of yellow. John followed it, turning in a slow, intoxicating spin. Sherlock caught him by the shoulders just as the trumpetfish fled, hauled him up and into the air.  
  
“What did you see? Let me try it.”  
  
“A bunch of tiny silver fish I didn't recognize,” John said, removing the mask and handing it over to Sherlock. “One trumpetfish. You scared it away.”  
  
“Ah, the bright yellow,” Sherlock said, and sank before John could respond.  
  
John followed Sherlock at a reasonable distance, using the occasional protuberance of coral for leverage. The water was cool and soothing, which, he imagined, were its major selling points for Sherlock. He stayed under for three full minutes, which would've been unusual by any doctor's assessment. He surfaced five feet away, grinning as he shoved back the mask.  
  
“Do you hear those strange clicking sounds when you're under?” Sherlock asked. “It's parrotfish eating the coral. I caught two of them at it. They were the size of dinner plates.”  
  
“They come even larger, I'm told,” John said, reaching for the mask. “My turn.”  
  
They continued until Sherlock had managed to spot at least one of each of the usual suspects: trumpetfish, angelfish, butterfly fish, wrasse. He expressed regret at not having brought the proper equipment for taking specimens. John had to explain this was not only a bit not good, but also illegal. This was the point at which Sherlock decided he'd had enough of snorkeling and just wanted to swim. They collected John's rucksack and relocated to the main strand, where there was less chance of cutting up their feet on coral. Sherlock even seemed to have overcome his self-consciousness (or had at least forgotten about it). He held onto John's hand as they rode out the waves, treading water that was surely over twenty feet deep.  
  
“I'm not going anywhere,” John told him, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's delighted expression as a particularly fierce swell buoyed them up, and then lowered them gently as it passed.  
  
Sherlock's smile shifted from one drunk on sensation to a rare, fragile flicker of hope.  
  
“Must you always wait until we're in imminent danger to broach awkward subjects?”  
  
John felt a stab of panic, but he channeled it into riding the next wave, pulling Sherlock in closer.  
  
“Either that or, more specifically, till we're in danger of drowning.”  
  
“You couldn't have known it would come to that,” Sherlock insisted, the corners of his lips quirked.  
  
“Neither could you,” John said, and found that he couldn't stop grinning.  
  
“You didn't mind my tearing your clothes off as much as you suggested you might,” Sherlock said, catching John's other hand. “At least in the long run.”  
  
“It's a good job you waited, oh, all of three weeks. I might've died of shock if you'd done it sooner.”  
  
“And relief, I should hope,” added Sherlock, so low it was almost inaudible above the approaching wave. John hauled them both into thick of it just in time, kissing Sherlock hard as it receded.  
  
“Not going anywhere,” John repeated.  
  
Sherlock only nodded, but it was more than enough.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“I'm not taking the bus again,” said Sherlock the next morning, from underneath the duvet. “We'll book a cab, or we won't go at all.”  
  
John yanked the covers back down, trying hard not to laugh at Sherlock's petulant expression. Coupled with the sunburn, which had stalled out just shy of second-degree, it was a priceless sight.  
  
“I thought you'd be keen to see what passes for civilization here.”  
  
“Hamilton's the capital; of course it's civilized.” Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, which, after the day before, was in no better state than his face. John hadn't found any opportunity to make him re-apply sun cream, and Sherlock had been content to stay in the water till early evening.  
  
“You can dress normally,” John said. “You'll want to cover up, anyway.”  
  
Sherlock idly scratched his shoulder, and then hissed in pain. “Yes.”  
  
“The receptionist said there are some nice restaurants. Right up our alley.”  
  
“Seafood,” Sherlock insisted. “I'm tired of _looking_ at fish. I'd rather eat them.”  
  
“You work on getting out of bed,” John said. “There's some paracetamol in my kit. I'll go down and arrange a cab for two hours from now and get us some breakfast.”  
  
“Better make it three,” Sherlock said.  
  
They did manage to leave the suite inside three hours, although not before Sherlock failed to eat his breakfast, winced his way through a lukewarm shower, and insisted that John help him get dressed. The ride was a pleasant one, even scenic (Sherlock commented ceaselessly on the banana trees), and it ran them almost forty dollars. They stood on the high street pavement, directly port-side, Sherlock with his hands in his pockets and John studying a map.  
  
“Lots of posh jewelry shops, from the look of it,” John said. “No gift for Harry this time.”  
  
“Don't be stupid,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft wouldn't mind.”  
  
“I'm not spending your brother's money on shiny things for my sister.”  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. “Then spend it on me.”  
  
“I already did,” John said. “You got some very serviceable clothes.”  
  
“Ones I'll never have cause to wear again.”  
  
John looked up at him. “How do you know? What if we go somewhere else warm?”  
  
“We'll buy some more,” said Sherlock, absently. “This way,” he said indicating that they should cross over the road and turn left. John stuffed the map in his pocket, dashing to catch up.  
  
It was a continual source of dismay for John, that Sherlock actually enjoyed browsing through shops in unfamiliar places. He wondered if Sherlock had spent his first month of living in London exploring every nook and cranny to which he could gain access (and probably just as many that he _couldn't_ ). A case had once taken them to Clapham Junction, which had somehow slipped Sherlock's reconnaissance nets. They'd wasted two hours popping in and out of gourmet food shops and antique dealers, by which time Sherlock had spent nearly a hundred quid on a baffling assortment of objects and edibles. It did explain some of the stranger contents of their flat.  
  
Sherlock still wouldn't tell him why the cow skull on the wall was wearing headphones.  
  
“Look at this,” Sherlock said, tapping on a glass case. Well against John's wishes, he'd dragged them into one of the larger, classier looking jewelers. “Opal and diamond. Imported from America, of course; hardly local craftsmanship. She'd give up gin for a month. It's the last frontier.”  
  
“I can't believe you're suggesting I should bribe Harry. Sherlock, just— _no_. She's done very well in rehab this time around. I can hardly begrudge her the occasional Hendrick's martini.”  
  
“Buy it for Clara, then. Harry will try to one-up you. It'll keep her in line.”  
  
“I didn't know you cared.”  
  
Sherlock straightened up and gave John a sharp look.  
  
“As insufferable as I find my own kin, the importance of such ties is not lost on me.”  
  
“That's...good, Sherlock. _Very_ good, actually.”  
  
“Besides, it's in your best interests to help keep them stable. They want a child.”  
  
John blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“You ought to pay closer attention to the mess of paperwork on Harry's desk.”  
  
“At least one of us is paying attention,” John sighed. “How much is that pendant?”  
  
Having bitten off another significant portion of Mycroft's transfer, they moved on from the jeweler to a coffee shop where Sherlock ordered an embarrassingly large iced mocha and John tried to make up for it by insisting a regular cup of tea would do. Sherlock scanned a copy of the local newspaper that somebody had left sitting on the counter, made some derisive remarks about the local law enforcement, and chewed happily on his straw. John sat back and marveled at him: for a man so easily bored, Sherlock had a real talent for making his own fun. And John was part of it.  
  
Two book shops, a department store, and an alcohol emporium later, they were laden with _The Wall Street Journal_ , _The Times_ , and a bottle of local rum (which was entirely John's doing; after the swizzles, Sherlock remained suspicious). Not far from where Sherlock was insisting that they have dinner, they found Par-La-Ville Park, which was overhung with lush vegetation and populated by friendly stray cats. They claimed a bench, and while John read _The Times_ , Sherlock entertained one of the cats with a ribbon off the box containing Harry's pendant.  
  
“If I didn't know any better,” John said, turning the page, “I'd say you were enjoying yourself.”  
  
“I did say the company was better this time around, didn't I?” asked Sherlock, mildly, scratching under the cat's chin. He brushed his fingers off on his jacket. “She's tolerable, for a cat.”  
  
Laughing, John folded up the newspaper and swatted him with it. The cat fled.  
  
“I'm feeling a bit peckish. Are you?”  
  
“Not quite,” Sherlock said, “but I'm hot. You never mind drinks and starters.”  
  
The Lobster Pot was more than happy to seat them without a reservation, as it was only five-thirty and the dinner crowd wouldn't hit until seven. Sherlock took one look at the menu and decided that he was famished—which seemed closer to the truth than what he'd claimed in the park, given that he hadn't eaten breakfast and had only finished half of his lunch. John ordered a Dark and Stormy, but couldn't persuade Sherlock to have anything other than water. _Fair enough_ , John thought. _He's probably dehydrated_. They each decided to have a bowl of the fish chowder with black pepper and sherry (supposedly legendary), and they'd share the seafood platter.  
  
“I steal all of the crab legs,” Sherlock said, closing his menu. “It annoys Mycroft.”  
  
“You can only have them if I get to eat all of the lobster,” John countered.  
  
Sherlock considered this for a moment. “Not worth it.”  
  
“Good,” John replied, “because I like crab legs, too.”  
  
Sharing food with a genuinely hungry Sherlock was never as much of a nightmare as John had expected it would be. The chowder was incredible (as advertized), and the seafood was, overall, some of the freshest John had ever tasted. Sherlock ended up with slightly more of the crab legs than he ought to have, so John retaliated by taking both claws off the lobster. By the end of the meal, they were both a mess, hands bruised and, in Sherlock's case, actually _cut_ as a result of cracking into so many spiny, razor-edged shells.  
  
John was mildly inebriated by the time they settled the bill and found a cab to take them back to Grotto Bay. While Sherlock paid the driver, John stumbled out of the back seat with their parcels in tow and tried not to think about how much of Mycroft's money they'd spent. His leg felt stiff.  
  
“Enough that he'll think twice about sending us on holiday again for at least a year,” Sherlock said as the cab drove off, helping John up the stairs. “I wouldn't lose sleep over it.”  
  
Once they were safely inside, John collapsed on the edge of the bed and dazedly watched Sherlock undress. Sunburn aside, he looked bright-eyed, well fed, and content. _I'd like to see that more often_ , John thought as Sherlock slipped out of his shirt and set about unfastening his trousers. _Every day for the rest of my life, even_. Sherlock didn't stop until he was naked, at which point he padded over to John, pried the shopping bags out of his left hand, knelt down and removed his sandals, then set his hands on John's thighs.  
  
“Is that some kind of hint?” John asked, trying for playful, but it came out vaguely slurred.  
  
“If you'll have me,” said Sherlock, wryly. “I'm sore, as surface area goes.”  
  
“Nothing I can't work around,” John said, tugging Sherlock up for a kiss.  
  
John enjoyed lazy, slow nights like this when Sherlock was tired and he'd had a few too many. Sherlock sprawled effortlessly under him, sighing as John bent to brush a careful kiss against his neck. He hummed in disappointment when John stopped to remove his own clothing, tensing when John crawled back over him, too sensitive for skin on skin. John held Sherlock by the hips, thankfully unburnt, and licked the head of his cock. Sherlock jerked up to meet him, his breath hitching.  
  
“More,” Sherlock demanded.  
  
John began to suck in earnest, more than happy to oblige him.  
  
Later, after Sherlock had returned the favor and they'd found a position that didn't seem to pain Sherlock unduly, they curled up under the sheet with the lights out and the television on low volume. John loved the times when Sherlock seemed to enjoy background noise.  
  
It meant he wasn't thinking about anything except for this.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sherlock wasn't pleased about returning to the ship. He dragged his feet over packing, and then insisted that they hadn't been given enough time to explore the rest of the islands. John admitted that this was true, but there wasn't much for it. Sherlock huffed and tossed his flip-flops in the suitcase. He took so much time about it that they had to grab croissants from the continental buffet on the way out so as not to keep their cab waiting any longer.  
  
“Much longer out here and you'd have burnt to a crisp,” John said. “I'm getting you some aloe vera lotion from the spa on the ship. That ought to help.”  
  
“It's healing already,” said Sherlock, irritably. “I itch all over. Sea water would help.”  
  
“There's no more of that where we're going, I'm afraid,” John told him.  
  
Sherlock returned to staring out the window and said nothing.  
  
The boarding queue was ludicrous, and the fact that they had all of their luggage in tow didn't make matters any easier. Sherlock took to setting his suitcases down and toying with his phone, only to draw angry _harrumphs_ from the couple behind them every time the queue started to move again. John finally got sick of it and tried to take one of Sherlock's suitcases off of him.  
  
“Clearwater Beach in St. David's,” he said, stubbornly hanging onto it. “The shelling is supposedly excellent, and there are far fewer tourists. Have I ever shown you my volute collection?”  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“Swimming with dolphins at the Royal Naval Dockyard. I've always been curious.”  
  
“ _Sherlock_ , we're nearly—”  
  
“Welcome back,” said the gangplank attendant, directly in front of John. “May I scan your IDs, please?”  
  
John turned to Sherlock, and what he saw took his breath away.  
  
“I'm not done here,” said Sherlock, firmly. “Not done with _you_.”  
  
“Right,” John said, swaying back in the attendant's direction. “Is failing to get back on the boat illegal?”  
  
The attendant gave him a confused look. “Why would you...”  
  
“Yes or no,” John pressed. “Is it illegal?”  
  
“Not...really,” she said. “People miss boarding all the time and have to find their own way home.”  
  
“Perfect,” John said, handing her their IDs. “Just perfect. We haven't left anything in the cabin. Do what you like with it. Settle our onboard account using the credit card you've got on file.”  
  
“Listen, customs might not let you back through unless you can prove you have a return—”  
  
“Return flight sorted,” said Sherlock, showing the attendant his phone. “Direct from Bermuda L.F. Wade International to Heathrow on 30 April. Any questions?”  
  
The attendant faltered. “No, I suppose...”  
  
“Thank you,” said John, hastily, peeling out of the queue to catch up with Sherlock, who was already headed in the direction whence they'd come. _30 April_. John would still get back to work on time, and there'd be no showdown with Sarah over Sherlock-instigated changes of plans.  
  
Sherlock stood waiting next to the entrance to customs, ridiculously pleased with himself.  
  
“That only buys us two more days on the ground, you know,” John said, panting as he came to a halt. “Can't imagine how much that one-way flight must have cost for two adults at the last minute.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “If you're honestly dying to know, just ask Mycroft.”  
  
“It can wait,” John said, leaning into him with a smile. “I'm not done with you, either.”


	2. Window of Opportunity

While John sees Harry and Clara out the door, all Sherlock can do is stare.

"She's tiny," he blurts, and it's embarrassing. _Obviously_.

"She's two weeks old, Sherlock," says John, returning. "Of course she is."

"How long did you say they'll be gone?" Sherlock asks, his brow furrowed. This will undoubtedly put a damper on his ability to use toxic chemicals in experiments.

"Till next Friday," John says, taking a seat on the other side of the carry-cot that's now wedged between them on the sofa. "Nine days. Do you think you can handle it?"

Sherlock snorts, inexplicably fascinated by the contortion of Elisabeth's splotchy face as she yawns, aimlessly waving her arms. One delicate fingernail scrapes Sherlock's jaw, and he sits back, startled. He hadn't realized he'd leaned in so close.

"She's your niece," Sherlock points out. "You agreed to this without asking me first."

"That's right, I did," John concedes, and he looks for all the world like he's trying not to smile. "Mum and Dad are years gone, and Clara's parents are going senile. Where else were they supposed to take her? Harry's co-workers declined."

"Normal people earning your sister's salary hire a nanny," Sherlock points out, but he doesn't look up at John. The tip of his right index finger is pressed to the fragile warmth of Elisabeth's palm. Her fingers clench and unclench, and she squirms with a pitiful whine. _Such dark hair_ , he thinks. _Asian sperm donor? Indian. Maybe Arab._

"Neither one's had any sleep in a fortnight, and Clara's still on pain medication."

"Giving birth for the first time at thirty-five is ill advised at best," Sherlock replies, attempting to pull away. Elisabeth has settled into a soft, whistling snore with her fist closed tight around Sherlock's fingertip. "What do they call her?"

"Liss," says John, cringing. "They're mispronouncing the old-fashioned spelling."

"Liss is better than Liz," Sherlock says, watching with a mixture of horror and fascination as the baby tugs his finger up to her mouth and begins to suck intermittently, unable to decide whether she'd rather stay awake or drift off.

"Maybe so," John says. He tugs the knitted cap off Elisabeth's head and grins, clearly besotted. "I'm to put you through formula-mixing and nappy-changing tutorials, as I wasn't able to get that much time off this week—"

"I can read," says Sherlock, irritably, as Elisabeth's grip on his finger finally eases. "And Google has plenty to say on the subject. We'll manage," he adds, startled to realize he's addressing the baby. John's smirk blooms in his peripheral vision.

"She's yours, too, you know."

"Beg pardon?"

"Your niece," John clarifies. "Or did you divorce me while I wasn't looking?"

Sherlock lets his hand fall to Elisabeth's blanket-covered chest, spanning the delicate rise and fall of her breath. Her heartbeat is strong even through several layers of fabric, vivid with warmth. A faint memory stirs in him, almost too distant to retrieve: Mycroft's hand clutched in both of his own ( _Tiny_ , he thinks)—

All Sherlock can do is stare.


	3. Our Own Skin

Sherlock is silent for almost the entirety of the train ride, hunched down in his seat with his knees drawn up, peevishly responding to Mycroft's texts. John watches the bucolic landscape roll by, secure in the knowledge that, whatever they're in for on the other end, it will probably have been worth at least a _look_. Sherlock's requirements are picky in the extreme, whereas John just wants a roof that doesn't leak.

"Why doesn't he just call?" John asks, setting a hand on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock doesn't dislodge it, which is reassuring. He's not as annoyed as he looks.

"The answer ought to be obvious," he says. "What do you know about last week?"

"Right," John sighs. "He was at the dentist then, so...meeting it is."

"I often wonder if his minions even notice that what he's tapping in on the screen has nothing to do with what they're talking about. Not that I care," Sherlock adds, sniffing as he slips the phone back into his pocket. He turns his head to look at John.

"What?" John prompts, giving Sherlock's knee a squeeze. "You were about to say?"

"I find Mycroft's determination quite troubling," replies Sherlock.

"Well, he does know what you like," John says. _Although you'd never admit it_.

"It's in the middle of nowhere!" Sherlock snaps. "Two hours by train from central London, and then a cab ride from the station besides. Exactly what part of this scenario counts as _convenient to civilization_?"

"Come off it," John sighs, shifting so that his arm's around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock doesn't lean into John's embrace, but he doesn't pull away, either, so it still counts as progress. "You know as well as I do that we need a change of scenery. London's too dangerous," he says, and lets his meaning hang unspoken between them.

Sherlock twitches, recovers himself, and huddles closer to John.

"We had a good run of it, didn't we," he murmurs. "While it lasted."

"Yeah," John agrees, resting his cheek against Sherlock's hair. "Yeah, we did."

They arrive at the station half an hour later, by which time Sherlock is stiff from having sat hunched the whole way. It's clear to John by the tightening lines at the corners of his eyes that the pain in his hip is especially severe today. Four screws and more bed rest than anyone could deem reasonable, even John: that's what the showdown had left him with, an injury far too cruel for a man still in his prime. The curve of his neck and the trail of his spine are still graceful, but there, too, he'd sustained unimaginable trauma. Of the two of them, John's actually in far better shape. His limp is long gone, and his shoulder has resigned itself to aching when the weather's damp or when he's done housework that involves too much arm activity.

As much as he'll miss Baker Street, he won't miss the intractability of those stairs.

"You shouldn't sit like that," John tells him, steering Sherlock into the taxi queue. It seems pointless to be so formal, as they're the only ones waiting for a ride.

"You shouldn't let me," Sherlock replies, scowling as the car pulls up.

"You know how funny that is, I hope," John says, opening the door for Sherlock. After a bit of wincing and maneuvering, they're both safely ensconced in the back seat and the driver is sympathetically peering at them in the rear-view mirror.

"Absolutely hilarious," says Sherlock, and then to the driver: "You know where to go?"

"Yes, sir," the man reassures him. "It's all sorted."

"The marvel of government resources expended on one's behalf," Sherlock mutters.

The drive is nothing if not scenic, and John would be lying if he claimed that he wasn't already in love with their surroundings. Sherlock seems fascinated by the narrow, winding roads lined with hedges and lindens and fields full of sheep. John wonders where the local surgery is: Mycroft had mentioned one, but they must have left it behind in the village proper. He also wonders if they're actually hiring, of if they've been given a considerable grant with non-negotiable encouragement _to_ hire. 

Either way, John's not above being grateful on behalf of both of them.

There's a long, sloping tree-lined drive and a wooden gate that needs opening before the car can proceed. Sherlock leans forward in his seat, anxiously peering through the windshield. The house comes into view, pristine and unassuming: its original owner had built it five years ago and promptly moved on to bigger and better things. How anything could be bigger and better than a three-bedroom cottage with enough space to carve out two offices and a laboratory to boot is beyond him.

"There's some property out back," says the driver. "Brambles and pear trees and such, all gone wild. You could keep chickens or goats if you liked."

 _Enough space for a garden, then,_ John thinks as he helps Sherlock out of the car.

"Too much fuss," Sherlock replies, wrinkling his nose as he straightens his coat and surveys the front of the house. John is afraid that the first word out of his mouth will be _dull_ or _hateful_ or something equally laden with disdain, but the truth of the matter is that Sherlock is blinking at the pale, cloudy backdrop of mist-laden sky and pretending not to chew on his lower lip. Pretending the gears aren't turning.

"Come on," John says, taking him by the elbow. "Let's have a look."

The driver gives them the front-door keys, but he doesn't follow them inside. John's glad of that, because instead of examining the place, Sherlock would've ended up torturing the poor fellow with questions designed to make him look even more stupid than he very likely is. At first glance, the house is empty and airy. The hardwood floor of the entryway is solid and sound beneath the soles of John's shoes.

"One office and all three bedrooms upstairs," Sherlock says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Second office at the back, with sliding glass doors overlooking the garden. I don't doubt you'll want that one. Second-smallest bedroom: laboratory."

John just shakes his head, grinning. "I said let's have a _look_ , not let's deduce it."

"Same thing," says Sherlock, shrugging. "Lead on."

They wander through the kitchen, idly regarding the fashionable appliances and marble work-top. John helps Sherlock up the stairs—twenty of them, there's not much for it—and they separate to poke into various corners on their own. John wonders what use Sherlock will have for an office _and_ a laboratory, but then he remembers the fact that the both the kitchen and the sitting-room at Baker Street have been doing double duty for years, and the question subsides. The second-smallest bedroom has no windows, which is why Sherlock has designated it lab-worthy, and the smallest bedroom will be serviceable for guests, provided they haven't got more than one or two at a time. Harry will fill the white, empty closet with her expensive linens.

John finds Sherlock in the master bedroom, silhouetted dark and brooding against the half-moon bay window, his back turned. There's a stillness in him that John has never seen before, and Sherlock is motionless more often than most would believe.

"What would you say," Sherlock ventures, "if I were to take up beekeeping?"

John steps up beside him, considering this with his arms folded.

"Tricky. Less messy than goats or chickens, but they're a lot of fuss, I hear."

"That's why I'd like to keep them. Colony failure is one of the most persistent unsolved mysteries of our time, not to mention an overall decline in population."

"Isn't it a combination of things? Pesticides, varroa mites, human interference—"

"I'd have kept bees in London," Sherlock murmurs. "No, it's something more."

"And you're going to find out what it is," John says. "Solve it and put it to rest."

Sherlock inclines his head, finally meeting John's eyes. His own catch the falling sun, pool with light in the approaching dusk. The press of his lips is prelude to a promise.

"If it's the last thing we do," Sherlock replies, and John knows that they will.


	4. How I Met Your Uncle

Waiting is always the worst part, and Harry is rarely punctual.

John clears the table and scrubs down the work-top twice that morning, the first time on account of remnants from (Sherlock's uneaten) breakfast, and the second time on account of Sherlock blitzing through a handful of necropsies on some bees they'd recently found deceased. Elisabeth is allergic to bees, and, as a result, she's skittish even around dead and captive ones. In spite of Sherlock's best attempts to lure her out to the hives, the girl always shakes her head fiercely and sticks out her tongue. 

How very like her mother— _well_ , there's the rub. How very like _Harry_. In spite of the fact that Clara had carried her and Watson DNA had figured nowhere into the equation, Elisabeth takes so much after John's sister that it's often infuriating.

That doesn't mean he doesn't love her as fiercely as if she were his own daughter.

Elisabeth has been spending summers with them in Sussex ever since she'd been old enough to walk, talk, and ask questions. Her arrival thirteen years ago had come as both a shock and a delight, not least because everyone had expected Harry and Clara to encounter far more difficulties in overcoming their uneasy past. Harry had left alcohol behind by then, however, and her days of straying were over.

Elisabeth had grown from a bright toddler into an even brighter young woman. She'd be a real stunner someday: her glossy black hair, grey-green eyes, and faintly cinnamon skin had led Sherlock to believe that the sperm donor had been of Kashmiri stock. What Sherlock loved best about her—and John was sure Elisabeth knew it, too, even though Sherlock would never say it in so many words—was her relentlessly inquisitive nature. She'd often watch Sherlock work, sometimes long into the night, until she fell asleep across from him at the kitchen table and John found it necessary to carry her upstairs to bed. Sherlock would often follow them, fond and lingering.

The doorbell sounds all too soon, breaking John's reverie.

"Hey! Uncle John!" echoes a young, familiar voice from outside, followed by the restrained, tongue-in-cheek pummeling of small fists against the glass. "Anybody home? You guys aren't still in _pyjamas_ , are you? Because that would be weird!"

John swears under his breath, drops the tea-towel in the sink, and rushes to answer the door. "No, we're not in pyjamas," he says, throwing his arms wide as Elisabeth launches herself at him, grinning from ear to ear. John kisses the top of her head as he spins her around, noting how much heavier she's gotten since her last visit. 

_She's had a growth spurt_ , he thinks, setting her down when his shoulder finally screams in protest. _My God, she's looking me straight in the eye_. And it was true: she was shorter than John by half an inch now, and if she kept going, she'd be looking Sherlock in the eye next. "What have your mothers been feeding you?"

"The usual," Harry says, her arms folded across her chest as she steps inside, but doesn't bother to shut the door behind her. "Fish and chips, pizza, Clara's homemade pasta. She's still a picky eater. Sherlock's been a bad influence."

Elisabeth pulls a face. "Mum, shut up. He is _not_. He doesn't eat _anything_."

"Then it's veggies for you, Liss," John sighs, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

"Uncle Sherlock won't eat them, either," insists Elisabeth, crossing her own arms, a perfect, stubborn mirror of Harry. "You'll be eating them by yourself."

"Watch your mouth, love," Harry chides, but her tone of voice is fond as she hugs her daughter goodbye. "And do as Uncle John says. As for Uncle Sherlock, you'd better think twice before listening. Be good." And, with that, she's gone.

"Mum's in a hurry today," John observes, shifting her suitcase away from the door.

"She's got some meeting in the city," Elisabeth says. "They're closing a big sale."

"Then she's not likely to bother us, is she?" John asks. "Come on, you must be starving. Unless you had lunch on the way? Don't tell me it was McDonald's."

"I _wanted_ McDonald's, but Mum said no," pouts Elisabeth.

"And what does Mummy say?" John had always found her addition of the extra syllable as a way of distinguishing between Harry and Clara endearing. Sherlock had always found it tiresome, but he'd never say so. He'd learned how to smile and mean it.

"Mummy says it's okay _once_ in a while. She's more likely to give in."

"Well, I can assure you that I agree with Mum wholeheartedly for once," John tells her. "I'm going to take this upstairs to your room while you have a look through the fridge and pick out what you'd like for lunch, all right?"

Elisabeth starts for the kitchen, and then hesitates. "Uncle John, is there...?"

John does a quick mental tally of the fridge's contents, shaking his head in relief. "No, nothing scary. I made Sherlock clear out the petri dishes last night."

"No bees?" Elisabeth asks, her brow still furrowed.

"No bees," says John, firmly, and kisses her on the forehead. "Go on."

John deposits Elisabeth's suitcase quickly on the bed, pausing to rub his shoulder. It's less tolerable than it had been twenty years ago, certainly, and he's grateful that their days of chasing criminals down dark alleys and across perilous rooftops are well and truly over. It hadn't been easy to get Sherlock to settle down, and John wishes it hadn't involved one too many near-fatal injuries and no dearth of threats from Mycroft. John hears Sherlock's footsteps in the hall behind him, doesn't bother to turn as Sherlock's hand lifts his out of the way and takes over massaging John's shoulder.

"I heard Harry's car pull into the drive," Sherlock says, "but I didn't want to come down and interrupt. Things tend to remain more peaceful when you deal with her."

"It wouldn't have been interrupting," John tells him. "She's missed you, too."

"Harry?" asks Sherlock, wryly, and John can picture the twist of his lips. "Not likely."

"No, idiot. I meant Liss."

Sherlock kisses the back of John's head and gives his shoulder a pat. "Tell her I'll join you both shortly. I've nearly finished the article. They won't be calling what's been happening to honeybees a mystery for much longer."

"Sherlock, that's fantastic," John says, turning just in time to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He trails across the hall to his study, already in a thoughtful daze, still clutching a book in his free hand. John watches him go.

"I heard that," Elisabeth says as John descends the stairs. "Is he working on something important? Will it make everybody hate him? I _love_ it when that happens."

"Yes, they'll hate him," John sighs, joining her in front of the open fridge. "But they'll thank him for it, too. This problem's been puzzling scientists for thirty years."

"I can't find any of your honey in the cupboards," says Elisabeth, annoyed.

"We sold the last of the most recent batch, but there's more on the way."

"Make Sherlock go collect some later."

John pulls out a chair for her. "Sit down. What do you want?"

"I _wanted_ a honey sandwich," Elisabeth mutters, reluctantly taking a seat.

"What about a ham sandwich with mustard? Or cheese and pickle?"

" _Boring_ ," she says, and her intonation stops John dead in his tracks. _That's_ new.

"Then what'll it be, Mistress Fussy?"

"Don't call me that," Elisabeth protests, but she's grinning. "Have you got curry?"

"How did you—"

"I can smell it. It's Mummy's recipe. I'll only eat it if there are no potatoes in."

"I made it without potatoes," John said, pulling out the container. "Sherlock won't eat them, either. Unless they're chips, of course. Another thing you two have in common."

"Uncle John," asks Elisabeth, "what's the scariest thing you ever found in there?"

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?"

"Yeah. Because I can't imagine anything scarier than that mouse cut in half."

"Way back in the day," says John, slowly, "when we first started living together, he..." He pauses, turning to look at her. "You're not going to believe me if I tell you."

Elisabeth sticks out her tongue. "Try me."

"A head," John manages, concentrating on the task at hand. "A human head."

Elisabeth makes a strangled noise, but she regains her composure quickly.

"In _this_ fridge?"

"No, in our old one. Do you remember Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes," Elisabeth says. "Your landlady. She died when I was four."

"That's the one. It was when we lived in Baker Street."

"I never even got to see what that place looked like," Elisabeth says.

"We have very fond memories of living there," John replies.

"Were you guys a couple when you moved in together?"

John takes a moment to marvel at the mature, measured quality of her words. _A couple_. _Moved in together_. Such an idea would've struck John as absurd twenty years ago, let alone at thirteen. What a brave new world they inhabit now, indeed.

"No," John says, realizing suddenly that Elisabeth has never heard the story. "In fact, we didn't even _know_ each other, as such, when we moved in together. Uncle Sherlock was looking for a place to live, and so was I, but neither of us were in a position to rent alone. A colleague at Bart's introduced us, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Oh," Elisabeth says. "Mike. He comes to Mum's Christmas parties, yeah?"

 _Damn it, but she's sharp_. John laughs, feeling slightly giddy.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. It was Mike."

"Was Sherlock working at Bart's?"

"Only in the sense that he'd charmed his way past the staff and set up shop in both the mortuary and in one of the laboratories. He's very good at getting what he wants."

"Yep," Elisabeth says. "Like me." Even her _smile_ has Sherlock written all over it.

John programs the microwave and then turns to face her, leaning against the work-top with his arms folded across his chest. By the way Elisabeth's looking at him, it's clear that she's thinking of her mother, and it's then that it occurs to John what a perfect mess of similarities they've all become. It's _glorious_.

"Don't you want to know the good bits?"

"You mean there are better bits than a head in the fridge?"

"Yeah. I mean, don't you want to know if it was love at first sight?"

Elisabeth sniffs haughtily. "There's no such thing."

 _That's Clara talking_ , John thinks. "That may be true," he agrees.

"But you guys are _so besotted_ ," Elisabeth teases. "That's what Mum says."

"It wasn't always like that," John admits, fetching an oven mitt for when Elisabeth's curry is done heating. "You can imagine that finding human body parts all over the kitchen on a regular basis didn't necessarily endear Sherlock to me at first."

"Ew, _what_? More than just a head?"

"Fingers in the freezer. Eyeballs in the microwave."

"Are you sure Uncle Sherlock's okay?"

"As okay as he'll ever be," John laughs. "These days, it's just bees and mice and bats. He doesn't have access to the mortuary at Bart's anymore, and there's no way the local coroner was having any of it, not way out here. People would talk."

"He helps people, though," says Elisabeth, thoughtfully. "I guess that makes it okay."

 _I'd better tell your mothers to keep an eye on you_ , thinks John, worriedly. He carries her curry over to the table and plops a spoon in it, just shy of splashing Elisabeth's shirt. She squeals indignantly, flinching, and then settles into relieved giggling.

"So," she says. "Why _did_ you fall in love with him?"

John pauses in the middle of scrubbing out the microwave, listening intently to the floorboards just above their heads. He knows the sound of Sherlock's every movement by now, no matter how slight. He's listening in on them, and he's probably been listening for at least the past ten minutes, perhaps longer.

"Lots of reasons," John admits, and resumes scrubbing. "First off, he developed the bad habit of letting me follow him around. Second of all, _I_ developed the bad habit of saving his life. Do you know how some people just have the knack of getting you to do whatever they want you to do, and you don't even know why, don't even _question_ it until you realize that it's because they somehow knew _you_ wanted it, too?"

Elisabeth stares at him blankly. "No."

"Well, don't worry about it," John says, washing his hands quickly under the tap. "Someday, you will." Sherlock is halfway down the stairs now, no longer attempting to hide his approach. Elisabeth breaks into the most heartbreaking smile John's ever seen, and she's out of her chair and in Sherlock's arms at the foot of the stairs before John can tell her to mind her manners. It's rare that Sherlock will indulge her addiction to full-body hugs, but right now, he's clinging to the girl like she's his everything, his world entire. It's at least half a minute before Sherlock releases her, asks her how she's been, and tells her she had better get back to her curry.

"Missed you," says Elisabeth. "Can I see what you're working on when I'm finished?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, joining her at the table. He glances briefly at John. "Now, what dreadful half-truths, inaccuracies, and lies has Uncle John been telling you?"

"He's telling me about how you met," she says. "About how you fell in love."

"Well, for my part, it was quite simple," Sherlock tells her. "Once he'd come into my life, I couldn't imagine it without him. Isn't that what you were trying to say, John?"

John nods, determined not to grab Sherlock and snog him right there.

"More or less. It's complicated, wouldn't you agree?"

"Complicated isn't good, though, is it?" Elisabeth asks. "At least Mummy says it's not."

"In our case," Sherlock insists, "complicated is perfect. Wouldn't you agree?"

He's looking at John again, and this time it's with barely disguised adoration.

"I know better than to contradict you," John says, stepping over to the table.

Sherlock takes hold of his hand and kisses his knuckles.

"Smart," Elisabeth says, grinning. "You guys _are_ pretty disgusting, you know that?"

 _Every day of my life_ , John thinks, leaning gratefully into Sherlock's embrace.

**Postscript:[ _We'll Get There in the End_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1048442)**


End file.
